Timber City Masks

by Kieran York

  “You think she’ll make it now?”

  “I would guess that she’s on the mend. Her condition is improving steadily and that’s always a good sign.” Hertha crossed her arms. She was wearing chestnut-toned fur boots, corduroy jeans, and a red turtleneck. Her dark hair was pulled back into one braid that rested against her back.

  Royce felt Smoky’s weak squirm. The pup wiggled with recognition of Royce. “She seems to be out of danger.”

  “I wish my brother was out of danger.” Hertha’s words were spiked and accompanied by a glare of censure.

  Royce flinched. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t agree with the decision to jail him.” Words paddled upstream toward an apology. “I truly am sorry.”

  “You are all sorry. The country is dominated by the male and by the pale. That’s the power base, so I’m not surprised that Ray is in jail. It’s only another part of the truth that I found long ago. That same truth I wish I didn’t need to accept. But I must.”

  “And I wish this didn’t reinforce your male and pale theory. I can only tell you how much I regret...” her words trickled to a halt. “Hertha, I’m not male, but I sure can’t deny being pale.”

  Hertha’s eyes flickered with a temporary smile. “No.” Then with a somber sigh, she added, “You are a pale face.”

  “Maybe one day we’ll all be able to appreciate one another for what’s in our hearts. I guess I’m in the wrong line of work to believe it’s going to happen anytime soon.”

  “Why did you become a deputy?”

  “Maybe to avenge my father’s murder.” There was a block of silence before Royce asked, “And why did you decide to be a veterinarian?”

  With a gentle sarcasm, Hertha answered, “There were no openings for a shaman in the area.”

  “From what my Gran tells me, the medicine women knew what they were doing.”

  “The Ute had over two hundred drugs that are included in modern pharmacopoeia before your ancestors arrived on the continent.”

  Royce returned the vet’s meager smile. “I hope you’re using some of them on Smoky.”

  “Yes. I use herbal medicine when I can. Wild cherry bark and spearmint tea soothe the stomach. I use peppermint and juniper berry to purify the blood. But those are professional secrets.”

  Royce felt the warmth of Smoky’s body as the pup snuggled to her. “Did your parents teach you herbalism?”

  “My grandmother was a medicine woman. My mother is now. They taught me some of the ancient secrets. When all else fails, I place my head against the wounded area and chant.” Hertha’s head lifted proudly. “We both have elected to follow in the footsteps of the people we admire.”

  “Your tradition is helping to save my dog. I just hope that my tradition can find the real murderer and see that your brother is released.”

  “Your tradition chased my people up into these shining mountains and then decided they would have the mountains as well as the farmland. You’ll forgive me if I don’t find comfort in your tradition.”

  “Hertha, you have my word that I’ll do everything I can. I don’t have a sibling, but I understand.”

  “I wonder if you can understand.” Hertha glanced into Royce’s face. “There is a bond between siblings. I’m sorry you don’t have a sister or brother. Then you would know.”

  “I was a twin. My brother was stillborn.” Her head sagged. There was a sympathetic glance as the conversation clamped shut for several moments. Royce placed her cheek against Smoky’s head. She was glad that she had not cropped Smoky’s ears, as Valeria had requested she do. She rebuffed the idea immediately. Smoky’s soft coat tickled and Royce smiled. She looked into her schnauzer’s oval ebony eyes. She watched as Smoky’s bristly eyebrows batted when Royce caressed her whiskered muzzle.

  “Hertha, thanks again for everything you’ve done for Smoky. She’s very important to me.” Royce felt the conversation stalling. She wanted to say so many things, yet they were all bogged down.

  “If Smoky continues to respond to the medication and rest, you should be able to take her home in a couple of days.”

  Royce gave Smoky a final hug. Against the same place where the healer had put her head and chanted Smoky well, Royce ruminated. For she could see a healing in Smoky’s eyes.

  Handing Smoky back, she felt the brush of Hertha’s arm. In silence, Royce walked to the door. When the door closed, she heard the sound of muffled bells. A flurry of sadness overwhelmed her.

  She now knew why Hertha White was in Timber City. The vet had also returned home. And it had been Hertha’s home first.

  ***

  Assembling at the Times office was Royce’s long-time comfort zone. Gwen was on the phone, and Royce leaned back into the softness of a padded oak rocker. Ginger purred loudly as she rubbed against Royce’s pant leg. Royce lifted Ginger into the bowl of her lap. “Never heard a cat purr this loudly,” she commented to Nadine Atwell.

  Beaming, Nadine’s crowded-tooth smile flashed. She was much shorter and quieter than her lover, Gwen. But Royce noted that Nadine usually got her way. She perfectly balanced Gwen’s mercurial temperament. Nadine’s disposition was one of sweet cheer. With her gentle humor and her calming ways, Nadine was a bit player in Gwen’s stage show. Charcoal-gray hair was pulled back from her pale skin. Her nose was slightly aquiline, and her eyes were a deep topaz. She had grown more attractive as she aged. Gwen called Nadine her house-spouse.

  Royce admired both women and their love. She longed for that kind of bonding. Gwen and Nadine shared reciprocal respect and total devotion. Royce wondered if fate would ever provide her with a love so sensitive and so complete. The two women had adjoining desks, as well as hearts.

  Gwen’s desk was a cluttered oak roll-top that had belonged to her grandfather. Jerome Thomas Ives had founded the Timber City Times. He had pounded away on the antique E. Remington and Sons typewriter that still claimed its place on Gwen’s desk.

  Gran had told Royce that Jerome T. Ives was a notorious character. If there was a week without news, he would create a gunfight. Fanatical, charming, and flamboyant, Ives gave his granddaughter her excuse. She always said that she came by her romping-stomping attitudes honestly.

  When Gwen finished talking, she pitched a stack of snaking galleys onto the lawyer’s bookcase. “Hell’s bells. Readers are either praising you or pissing on you,” she cackled. “Royce, you’re tripping on your lip. You hit a pothole in the investigation?”

  “I just looked in on Smoky.”

  “She’s beginning to get her vinegar back. In no time at all she’ll be a paw-full again. And I’ve got a little scoop that you might be interested in hearing. The vet is one of us. Don’t act so amazed!” Gwen snickered. “And you’d look good in her teepee.”

  “Plenty amazing!” Royce whistled through her teeth. “But you’re forgetting about Valeria.”

  “Wish to hell you would forget about her. As far as I can see, you’re getting shake, rattled, and rolled, and put on hold.”

  “It isn’t like that.”

  “Royce, you’re hooked on Valeria Driscoll. She’s your snuggle habit. She treats you like her patsy, and you just take it. I’m telling you, you’d better get detoxified from that woman.”

  “She’s mesmerizing,” Royce confessed. “But there’s more to it than that. I don’t always understand her, but I always love her.”

  “Maybe not being able to understand her is part of the attraction?”

  Royce wanted to derail the conversation. She wanted to shift the allegations of surface love. “So how’s the paper going?”

  “With this murder business, the subscriptions and street sales have picked up. I’d be lying if I told you that it’s going to be sufficient to pay the bills. Cost of paper went up again. I tell our creditors to be gentle with my billfold, but everything keeps going up. With the exception of advertising revenues. The caveat of commerce. Hell, we get a lot of dimes out of our nickels. But there comes a squeezing point.”

  “
I have a little saved,” Royce offered.

  “A little won’t help. But thanks anyway. I tell you, if expenses go up much more, we might as well put out heads between our legs, bend over, and kiss our asses good-bye.”

  “Before I forget, I wanted to ask you about the Chandler spread. I heard that some investors want to purchase it.”

  Nadine confirmed, “That’s true. Peakview Investments. Run by a man named Ed Francis from Dallas.”

  “Reputable?” Royce pried.

  “Probably not,” Gwen responded with a grin. “Know anyone in Luther’s camp who meets that description?”

  “With Luther Sumner next in succession, smart money will be placed on the sale to Peakview,” Nadine added.

  “Quite a story.” Gwen recapped, “Trish really married to keep the property. Old Chandler had some health problems, so the family moved to Arizona. Well, they threatened to give the property to a charity. Make it a ranch for wayward girls. Trish was twenty-five then and had no prospects for marriage. They gave her an ultimatum. She was their only child and she was up playing with the jet set. They wanted that stopped. They wanted the property to be passed down through the generations, which meant that Trish needed to marry and settle down. They weren’t too fussy.”

  “Obviously not,” Royce ratified.

  “Rumor has it that a decade ago Luther was running drugs up in the ski areas. He was in his early twenties, and single. His big brother deputy grabs him by the collar and points out the error of his way. Straightened him up just in time to marry his meal ticket. It wasn’t all Luther’s fault. Trish needed a man, or a facsimile. My guess is that she figured she could get the deed to the property and then buy Luther out. He got greedy.” Gwen squinted as she quizzed, “Part of your investigation?”

  “Everything is. I’m going over and talk to Ray’s boss lady. See what Faye at the Bell Ringer has to say about it.”

  “Give the vulgar tramp my best,” Gwen said with a chuckle. “She’s probably squealing like a fishwife after losing one of her best customers and her entertainer. She’s really caught in the middle of this. Being Yancy’s little bit of action and all. She truly likes Ray. Hates your fellow deputy, Nicky Hogan.”

  Royce divulged, “From what Nick says about Faye’s little Jade, I would say that she’s justified.”

  “Like mother; like daughter. Faye Arnall has been putting it about a bit since she found out how to undo her diaper pins.” Gwen stood and walked Royce to the door. “So tell the sour slut that we’re going to do another story on the cockroaches under her bar.”

  “You two and your squabble,” Nadine chastised.

  Stretching, Royce then tipped back her Stetson. “Do either of you recall what started your mutual contempt?”

  “The vulgar tramp was upset about a story I wrote on Yancy.”

  “Yancy’s story was a decade ago, and they still remember?”

  Gwen’s eyes flickered. “No one involved will ever forget the lambasting. My editorial mentioned that our newly-elected sheriff should stop spending so many on-duty hours ringing his belle.”

  “That would do it,” Royce muttered with a grin.

  “It did,” Gwen blustered. “It sure as hell did. His wife walked.”

  ***

  “That miserable prick tips my little Jade and I’ll hack his goddamn balls off with a sharp hatchet,” Faye Arnall disclosed. She was off and running with a full discourse on Nick Hogan. “I tell you, Roycie, there’ll be another killing around here if I catch him sniffing around my kid.” Faye blew rolls of smoke from the side of her puffy, flame-rose lips. Her seventeen-year-old daughter, Jade, was the object of her protection.

  Faye gave her nutmeg hair a toss. The rusty feather-curls surrounded an attractive, freckled face. With a brassy, booming voice, the curvy woman in her late thirties welcomed patrons to the Bell Ringer. The rustic saloon was legendary with country sounds and textures of the Old West. The large wooden-handled brass bell was part of that flavor. Traditionally, it was rung to tell cowboys that a round of drinks would be purchased by a lucky poker player or prospector. For the past several years, from time to time, that bell would go missing. Patrons suspected Laramie. The mysterious return of the bell would be celebrated with an announcement from Faye that drinks were on the house.

  Jade Arnall was a younger, lighter version of Faye. Time hadn’t yet made her as busty as her mother, but she was as headstrong. Jade was smitten with deputy Nick Hogan. Nick had bragged to Royce that he had indeed tinkered with her. Royce admonished that he was on dangerous ground. There had always been the rumor of Jade being Yancy’s child. Jade did resemble him, and the relationship between Yancy and Faye had been ongoing. It was common knowledge that they were close through his engagement and marriage to another woman, and that the affair had continued after his divorce.

  With a piano keyboard grin, Faye continued her tirade. “I tell you, Roycie, that Nick is aimin’ for an iceberg if he messes with Jade. Shit, he’s on constant testosterone overload,” Faye chortled. Her musical scale laugh continued for several moments. “My ovaries might overheat from time to time, but nobody ever complained.” Her emerald eyes batted, and her braying voice howled, “Least they never complained twice.”

  Royce smiled. “Have you warned Jade about going with Nick?”

  “Need to set off fireworks to get a kid’s attention.” Faye sauntered to the jukebox and fed it quarters. She returned to the bar where she stubbed out her cigarette with one smash. “He just better keep his pants on when he’s around my Jade.”

  Royce listened to the growling Judds’ song. “Guess you’ll be glad when Ray is cleared and can come back to work?”

  “We miss him. But I’m not so sure he’ll be coming back. Yanc claims he must have done it. Had the opportunity. That drifter, Osborn, was there and saw him.”

  “Maybe Osborn did it,” Royce nibbled the words. “He might have.”

  “Yanc says the drifter doesn’t have it in him. Little slip of a thing to be choking a fair size, athletic woman like Trish.” Faye hesitated and then with a bereft glance back at Royce shared, “I miss her. Hell, we had us some good laughs. Sure she was a highfalutin bitch. Pour a couple drinks in her though, and she came down to earth.”

  “Why would Ray have killed her?”

  “Yanc thinks it was robbery. Or maybe he got carried away. He was one to tank up pretty good. Maybe his blood was boilin’ for a woman.”

  “How was his mental state when he left here that night?”

  “Same as always. He drank up his Wild Turkey. He was hard drinking, but I never once saw him staggering. Booze never slapped him around. Maybe he just needed a little sugar.”

  Royce watched as Faye went to the other end of the bar. She took a drink to a customer and her bursting laughter clattered across the room. When she returned, Faye leaned over and whispered to Royce, “He says I look good enough to eat!”

  “My, my,” Royce feigned shock.

  “Told the horny sonofabitch that I ain’t on the menu.”

  “Dashed that cowboy’s hopes.”

  “Hope so.” Faye leaned near and divulged, “I can’t be bought, but I sure as hell can be rented.” She swabbed the counter with her bar rag. With a darting skip of a glance, she quizzed, “You think Ray killed her?”

  “My father always told me that no one can be excluded from a suspect list. Because someone did it. But I don’t believe Ray killed Trish.” Royce stood and nodded.

  “Come on back after you finish your shift and I’ll buy you a beer and put on some of your favorite Patsy Cline numbers.”

  The echoes of a lonely song accompanied Royce out onto the main street of Timber City. Royce meditated about that thin band of energy that holds us to life. How easily and how quickly it can be snipped, she contemplated. She recalled that it had been the first day after she’d arrived back on campus. A call came in telling her of her father’s death. Shot three times. Twice at point-blank range. Grady’s energy thread had b
een clipped. Two days ago, Royce could have entered the Bell Ringer and watched Trish Chandler-Sumner munching a buffalo burger and toasting life. She could have heard Trish singing along with the Judds. Singing about how she loves the moan of an old blues harp.

  Where’s it gonna take us, nobody knows, Royce’s mind lulled.

  Chapter 4

  Timber City’s tranquility was ajar. There was an eerie static on Main Street. Along its one side was the Eagle Inn Tavern and Dance Hall, Mining Company Mercantile, the beauty salon and barber shop, and on the corner, the Timber City Times. Across the street was Molly’s Pantry, Timber City Bank, a variety of small gift shops, and a real estate office. At the intersecting corner was the High Country Animal Clinic, a medical and dental office, and the Bell Ringer. At the next corner was the county courthouse, where the sheriff’s office and jail were housed. Across the way was Laird’s Country General Store. One corner of Laird’s was sectioned off and was the county post office. In front was a two-pump filling station.

  Run by Bonnie and Orson Laird, the general store’s winter window blazed with an ochre glow on early mornings. Customers warmed themselves near the pot-bellied stove as they waited for mail or to make a purchase. Along the upper wall was an assortment of pioneer artifacts. Miner’s picks and pans, kerosene lamps, assay cups, old spikes, and time-frosted bottles were strung on weathered shelves.

  Royce entered the general store, knowing that Bonnie would want to gossip about the murder. Amy, the Laird’s daughter, was the sheriff department’s dispatcher, and kept them informed. But they always seemed to expect the official version from Royce.

  There was no way out of the daily reports. Gran was one of their best postal customers. Dora Madison ordered from nearly every catalog house in the country. She would chuckle and say that the world was her shopping basket.

  “Butterscotch candy rolls finally came in,” Bonnie announced when she looked up from her counter and spied Royce. “Saved a whole box so you don’t run out again.” She rummaged around. “Things hereabout are in such a dither I just been forgettin’ to order 'em.”